


The Legend of Stinky Rod

by firenewt



Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Cute, Gen, Humor, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 12:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16619249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firenewt/pseuds/firenewt
Summary: Its always good to know you can count on your bros.





	The Legend of Stinky Rod

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Turk Week 2018, Day 3. The prompt was "loyalty".
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Thanks to Square Enix for letting me play in their world.

Rod deserved his nickname. Many thought his nickname was actually Rod. This wasn’t true. Or at least, it wasn’t all of it. To those who truly knew him, he was Stinky Rod.

Now, this was not because he had poor hygiene. It was not because he often smelled of diesel and grease after working on his beloved motorcycles. It was not because he, like many of the Turks, often ended up on the wrong side of a monster’s exploding guts; or dancing with a dearly departed but not so recently dead suspect; or sitting in a sewer during surveillance. No, it was because Rod had a particular talent, if one could call it that. 

Of course, everyone deals with internal gaseous rumblings at one time or another. But Rod’s GI biota was a maelstrom of burbles and bubbles and fermentation that created a super abundance of fantastically foul flatulence, and he could, and did, release it at will.

On command, at will, when startled, when sleeping, Rod let fly with various squeaks, blats, trumpets, whines and complicated symphonies. But the worst were the silent emissions, those dreaded and deadly whiffs that snuck up and suddenly overwhelmed the most stoic as well as the most unsuspecting. 

Rod had been known to clear a room in twenty seconds. He had driven Dark Nation to distraction as her sensitive olfactory organ was rendered useless. No one wanted to share a tent with him in the field. He had once been assigned to go up in a troop carrier with a bunch of green cadets who were afraid of making their first parachute jumps. Well, after half an hour, the door was wrenched open and the cadets started pouring out, hardly waiting for one to clear the deck before the next one jumped. And indeed, they were looking rather green. 

Amazingly, Rod never seemed bothered by the odour himself. There was speculation that he had lost his sense of smell, though perhaps he just liked, or was immune to, his own brand. He also never seemed embarrassed by it. In fact, he made the most of his unique abilities. In true Turk fashion, he used whatever weapons were available when it was necessary to go on the offensive. And he could be _**very**_ offensive. And he had made an art form of imitating monster noises at will, so successfully that he could call various monsters out of their lairs and often did so, for, um, shits and giggles. 

Yes, Rod, one of Shin-Ra’s finest, was well known within the company. He was looked upon with respect and no little awe. He was the subject of medical curiosity. He was in demand for parties. And he never lacked for ‘companionship’. His reputation had even come to the attention of Genesis Rhapsodos, who most ardently cultivated and collated his legions of fans and prided himself on his popularity. However, that esteemed SOLDIER turned up his patrician nose, literally and figuratively, at the crude entertainments Rod had to offer, and surrendered the field to him in disgust, refusing to compete with such a deplorable for attention. None of this made much impression on Rod and his industrial-strength intestinal flora, and they continued merrily on their stinky way.

So it was, one fateful Friday night, that Rod and a couple of his Turk buddies were relaxing in his quarters. Alcohol was consumed, cards were dealt, ties were discarded, music was volumized. And after Rod produced a staccato that coincided with a particularly intense drum solo, eliciting exclamations of admiration from his friends, and after the window was opened, the talk naturally turned to a friendly competition. After all, boys will be boys, and what could be more masculine that a fart contest?

Even knowing Rod was head and shoulders above them in both production and voluntary delivery, they determined to do their best. Toots, whistles, blasts and blips floated on the night air, followed by the raucous laughter of alcohol-fueled hilarity. 

“We need more beer!” Maur exclaimed, crunching yet another empty can and tossing it in the general direction of the garbage. He belched long and loudly. “Oops. Lost that one the wrong way!” He grinned as the others laughed and answered him with their own renditions on the theme.

“And snacks!” Nunchaku said. “I’m hungry! Whaddaya got for munchies, Roddo?”

Rod rooted around in his small kitchen for a few minutes and came up with an open box of stale Count Chocobo Puffs. “Sorry, boys,” he said sadly. “The cupboard is bare.” 

Maur cracked open another beer and swigged half of it. “No, really. Food. We need food. Doncha got nothin’?” He shoved Rod aside, eliciting a small pop like bubble wrap bursting, ignored the smelly result, and checked for himself. “Nothing!” he declared from where he was bent over inspecting the inside of the fridge. He punctuated this with a sound from his nether regions like fabric being torn. Rod smacked his butt, and Nunchaku giggled.

“Okay, okay, look, howzabout we make a run to the company kitchen?” he asked. “It’s late, the staff will be gone and we can help ourselves. Better than having to go out, right?”

“Totally!” Rod agreed, and Maur gurgled approval as he finished another beer. They trooped out and proceeded down the hall to the elevator in a wubbly mass, snickering and milling about and pinging off the walls and each other, propelled along by the occasional bloot.

The kitchen was deserted. A few dim lights here and there illuminated rows of gleaming copper and stainless steel pots and pans and racks of razor sharp knives. The Turks stumbled along the endless ranks of worktops, shushing each other ineffectually. Each time one of them passed gas they all jumped in genuine surprise, and that started a fresh wave of laughter. 

They reached the giant refrigerators, walk-in coolers and pantries at the far end of the cavernous room. “Jackpot!” Nunchaku crowed, gazing happily at the endless bounty revealed by the open doors. In a minute they were all stuffing their faces, heedless of the mess they were making. The sounds of their munching and slurping were broken only by a long, satisfied, sighing susurration from Rod. As the inevitable follow-up hit their nostrils they grabbed what they could from the fridge, shoved the door shut and retreated toward the bank of stoves to finish their meal.

“Oh!” Rod saw the box of matches used to light the gas burners sitting on a nearby shelf. “Oh, hey, guys! I’ve gotta show you this!” He popped the last of a piece of cold pizza into his mouth and grabbed the box.

“Whuh?” Nunchaku wondered around most of a ham sandwich. Maur crunched the beer can he had brought with him and looked around for a place to put it. Not seeing any handy bin, he shrugged and put it into one of the ovens, closing the door. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Watch!” Rod was about to unveil his finest party trick. “heeheeheehee!” He couldn’t stop giggling as he lowered his pants, bent over and struck one of the matches. He let loose a voluminous chthonic exhalation and reached back at the same time. The match flared and so did the air around it, blooming outward like the tail of a rocket, except pale blue instead of orange and yellow. The smell of brimstone tickled their noses.

“WHOA!” Maur yelled, jumping back. “THAT’S SICK, MAN! SO COOL!”

Nunchaku gulped like a guppy, trying not to choke in surprise. His admiration of Rod rose another few notches.

“Blue angel!” Rod said excitedly, yanking his pants back up and turning to face them. “Thing of beauty, isn’t it!”

“I wanna try! Gimme!” Maur snatched the box of matches from Rod.

“I warn you, this isn’t for amateurs!” Rod cautioned. “It took even a professional like me months of practice to perfect!”

Maur hardly heard him. He dropped his pants and was busily striking match after match, but they kept going out before he could coordinate bringing the flaming and the flammable together at the same time. The amount of beer he had consumed wasn’t helping.

“S’not working!” he complained. A small pile of half burnt matches grew on the slate tiles by his feet. Finally he thrust the box at Rod. “Here! You light it for me!”

Nunchaku, meantime, was trying to be helpful. His busy little squirrel brain was always working; he picked up a whetstone and a large knife, trying to strike a few sparks. That didn’t work very well, so he continued to look around and his eye fell on a small culinary torch sitting by the stand mixers. “Hey, guys, what about this?” he called, trotting over and handing it to Maur.

“What’s this?” They all stared at it. 

“It’s a thing!” said Nunchaku, waving vaguely at it. “You know. A…thingy!”

Maur turned it around, stared into it briefly, then thumbed the switch. Luckily he had turned the end away from his eyeball: a small blue flame leaped out, startling him, then disappeared as he let the switch go. He turned it on and off a few times, grinning. “I don’t need you, man!” he told Rod. “I got INSTANT FLAME! Lookit this! Like magic!”

He shuffled around to face away from them, his pants around his ankles, and held up the torch. “PREPARE TO BE AMAZED AT MAUR’S BUTTOCK BONANZA!” he yelled, and bent over.

Rod put out a hand. “Um, that might not be such a g…” He was cut short as Maur swung the torch backward, the flame blazing brightly. He did indeed let one rip, but his timing was off. Instead of igniting the gas, he ignited the hem of his shirt and flambéed his own hairy butt. 

With a shriek he fell forward, dropping the torch and stumbling as his feet were caught in his pants. His flailing hands grabbed for anything they could to halt his descent. With a resounding crash he fell into the hanging pots and pans. They started to drop all around him, clanging off each other and the floor. Various items were knocked off the counters, adding to the din. Rod and Nunchaku clutched each other in horror, unable to stop the disaster.

With a final howl, Maur went down despite his efforts to stay upright, and joined the carnage on the floor. The last few pots rolled away with a metallic ringing and then there was silence except for Maur’s moans. 

Nunchaku let out a shaky breath and gingerly stepped forward to try and help him up. “Wow! Major downer, dude! You okay?” Rod pushed aside the pieces of a broken stand mixer and joined him. They each took an arm and hauled Maur to his feet.

Suddenly the lights snapped on, freezing them in place. “What is going on in here?” came an icy voice.

They turned slowly, blinking like a trio of half-fledged owls caught out at noon. Tseng stood in the doorway, fully dressed, his tie centered neatly and every glossy hair in place. 

“Does he ever sleep?” Nunchaku muttered out of the side of his mouth. Tseng pinned him with a glare and the young Turk gave him a weak smile. “H-Hey, there, sir.”

Tseng approached them slowly, taking in the wreckage, before stopping in front of them, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze traveled over each of them, lingering on Maur as he was struggling to get his pants sorted out and back into place. The others stood straight on either side of him. 

“Why are you in the kitchens at this hour?” Tseng asked.

“Rats!” Rod said, at the same time as Nunchaku said “Snacks!”

“Uhh, we heard there was a problem with rats, so we staked the place out tonight, but we got hungry and had some snacks while we were waiting, then we saw the rats and went after them but Maur got bit and they got away and we were just checking his, uh, his, uh, checking to make sure if he was okay and it looks like he needs to go to the Infirmary, sir, so if you don’t mind we’ll take him there, yes?” Nunchaku breathlessly explained, his eyes wide and earnest.

Tseng studied his guileless face. “And this is your story, too?” he asked the others. Actually it was more of a statement than a question. They nodded vigorously.

“Of course,” Tseng said, inclining his head toward them as if in total agreement with Nunchaku’s request. They had a moment of hope before he continued. “Of course I don’t believe a word you’ve said.” Their faces fell. “This is conduct unbecoming to Turks. And you have caused significant damage.”

The three culprits stood stiffly, waiting for their doom. Rod stared blankly straight ahead.

“I believe I shall have to dock each of y…” Tseng stopped abruptly. His nostrils twitched. His eyes slowly started to glaze and he looked a little pinched around the mouth. In a testament to his superb self control, his expression remained neutral, but the three Turks saw him swallow involuntarily. Maur and Nunchaku didn’t bother to try and hide their own reactions; they were breathing through their mouths and their eyes were watering. 

“I shall deal with you later. Dismissed!” Tseng sounded a bit strangled as his words came out much faster than his usual solemn and measured way of speaking. He turned and made his way back to the entrance of the kitchen. Nothing about his pace suggested that he was in any kind of a hurry, but once he was out of sight, they could hear his footsteps suddenly speed considerably up as he headed down the hall.

As soon as he was gone, Maur and Nunchaku let out huge breaths, waving their hands in front of their faces as they beetled away from Rod, who stood there, relaxed and grinning.

“Gods!” Nunchaku gasped. “I thought we were done for sure! That was close!”

Maur winced, buckling his belt. “Thanks, man,” he said to Rod. “Never thought I’d be grateful for one of those quiet killers, but thanks. You saved our butts. Well, not quite all of mine, but y’know!”

Nunchaku giggled. 

Rod strode over to them one at a time, gathering both of them toward himself with an arm around each of their shoulders. “My bros! How could I not come to your rescues! We fart or die together!” He gave them a squeeze, even though they were trying to escape the miasma that still hung around him. “What say we head back to my place and finish the beer? But no more blue angels! Never try to challenge the master!” He squeezed them again, chuckling, but they heard the teeny tiny threat under his jocularity.

And thus the legend of Stinky Rod grew five sizes that night within the brotherhood of the Turks.


End file.
